Chapter VI: To an Outrageous Person

God forgive you, O my friend!
For, be sure, men never will.
Their most righteous wrath shall bend
Toward you all the strokes of ill.

You are outcast—Who could bear,
Laboring dully, to behold
That glad carelessness you wear,
Dancing down the sunlight’s gold?

Who, a self-discovered slave,
As the burdens on him press,
Could but curse you, arrant knave,
For your crime of happiness?

All the dogmas of our life
Are confuted by your fling,—
Taking dullness not to wife,
But with wonder wantoning.

All the good and great of earth,
Prophecying your bad end,
Sourly watch you dance in mirth
Up the rainbow, O my friend!